The birds are circling in the bluest sky above us, they know what is happening to the trees and the dirt. It is springtime, hallelujah, and all I can hope to do is spend my waking hours being nestled by the sun. As you know, if you often read these posts, I turn into a child the day before summer vacation when the first sign of spring occurs. I run into the grass like an entire graveyard full of the dead suddenly came back to life and returned to their homes where loved ones were missing them. I know it can't always be springtime, so I welcome it with an embrace so warm, even the truest of love would blush.
I don't want to work unless I'm in the garden. I don't want to sit where four walls keep me from the sun. I don't want to travel by train to summer — I want to take my time. This is it. This is the season where time's cruel ability to take things away goes unnoticed because we're too busy being alive with the bees.
It is springtime — warm air, rosy glow, birds are singing, digging trenches for the seeds, life has begun again, springtime. Hallelujah.